


Where I Follow, You Go

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Traveling Man [38]
Category: Into the Badlands (TV), Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 13:27:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14521551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: Written for the songs comment_fic prompt:Stargate Atlantis, John Sheppard/Rodney McKay/Evan LorneHands down we like, we like what we likeHands down we like, we love, we choose youWe've got an eye, an eye for what's romanceWe've got our eyes, our eyes trained on you(Wild Flag - Romance)Former clipper John escapes the Badlands and makes it past the wall and builds a new life with roving mechanic Rodney, and also Evan, whose past is a bit of a mystery.





	Where I Follow, You Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SherlockianSyndromes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockianSyndromes/gifts).



> Thanks to the incredible Brumeier for her quick and thorough beta services. All other mistakes are mine.
> 
> Also written for the What If AU Challenge #14 Fusion.

It had been easy to fall in love with Rodney, Rodney with his incessant chatter and complaining and the way he just voiced his thoughts constantly. John, who’d grown up the oldest son of a baron - and become a clipper for the who baron took his territory - was used to keeping his mouth shut, choosing his words carefully. Rodney had grown up outside the wall with a roving band of mechanics. He could make anything, build anything. Give him a wrench and a few spare parts and he had a working machine.

He had amazingly clever hands. John loved Rodney’s hands. He loved watching Rodney work, the way his eyes lit in excitement, the sensual line of his mouth as he frowned in concentration. He loved Rodney’s hands on his skin. He loved Rodney’s mouth, too, the cute crooked line of his smile, the melody of his voice, how fiercely brilliant he was. How he could kiss soft and slow and sweet or hard and fast and hungry and everything in between.

John had no intention of ever returning to the Badlands, of ending up under the thumb of yet another baron. Being under his father’s thumb as a puppet and political tool had been bad. Killing for another baron had been worse. He and Rodney had a good thing going, the two of them working as roving mechanics. John watched Rodney’s back, did the fetching and carrying. Rodney did the work that kept them in food and supplies. They stayed outside the wall, they stayed away from people unless they had to barter and trade, and they had each other. It was a good life. Better than any life John could have imagined for himself.

Better than marrying another Baron’s fine daughter and walking the halls of a stately manor, an endless cycle of greed and profit off of human blood. It was better than drinking and wicking at the dollhouse like the other clippers, an endless cycle of violence, death, and sex that he only enjoyed half the time anyway.

John’s life with Rodney was as close to perfect as to be found in this terrible world, and he couldn’t imagine it any other way.

And then they happened upon Evan. Rodney wanted to trade for parts with some scrappers, had done some heavy repair work on almost all of their supply trucks, and he saw, among the faceless and dirty-grey slaves, a man. Evan was like the other slaves, dressed shabbily, wearing a metal collar, head bowed, shoulders hunched. But where Rodney usually ignored slaves and servants and dolls, discomfited by the pervasive horror of human trafficking, John saw every single one of them. John saw their faces, their misery. He knew he’d lived off of it for too damn long, lived some of it himself. John had learned to pretend he didn’t see them, but he saw every one of them.

Evan served them food once the repairs were done, dropped to his knees beside Rodney and offered up a plate. He kept his head bowed, gaze averted.

And Rodney _looked_ at him. Saw the bruises and sores around his throat where the collar chafed. The tight line of his shoulders. The way he flinched ever so minutely when Rodney reached toward him to take the plate.

When the scrappers asked what Rodney wanted in payment for his repairing their fleet of supply trucks, Rodney asked for only the parts he needed for his next project - and Evan.

The leader of the scrappers, a diminutive man who ruled with cruelty and glee, laughed and grabbed Evan’s ass, squeezed fondly.

“You have fine taste in flesh,” he said. “But there’s more where he came from. He’s yours.”

Rodney nodded imperiously, like what he was doing wasn’t hideously disgusting, and John forced himself to maintain a blank expression. One of the thugs who formed the leader’s posse unlocked the collar, shoved Evan toward them.

Evan stood between the two groups, shoulders hunched, head bowed, in no man’s land.

And then Rodney ordered him into the old camper he and John used to get around, and Evan scurried to obey.

John didn’t know what Rodney was thinking, was horrified and disgusted and furious. Evan perched on the little couch in the living space, hands folded on his lap, head still bowed, so still John was afraid he wasn’t even breathing. John sat beside Rodney in the passenger seat, also still.

None of them said anything until the scrapper camp had vanished from the rearview mirror.

Then Rodney pulled over, scrambled out of the RV, and threw up in the grass on the side of the road.

John hurried after him.

“Rodney? Did they poison you? What’s wrong?”

Rodney, shuddering and hiccuping, shook his head, unable to speak.

Evan appeared, holding John’s water canteen. He held it out, but he still didn’t meet John’s gaze.

“Thanks,” John said. He unscrewed the cap, handed it to Rodney.

Rodney rinsed his mouth out, then drank. Finally he straightened up, looked at Evan.

“It’s done now,” he said. “You’re free. You can - go. Be. Do whatever.”

Evan lifted his head, eyes wide. He had blue, blue eyes. “What if I want to stay with you?”

That was the first time John heard him speak.

Rodney stared at him as well. “Stay with us? And - do what?”

“Help you fix things,” he said. “Learn how to fix things? Can you - can you teach me to read?”

“Read,” Rodney echoed. He glanced at John. “You know how to read.”

“It’s not common, in the Badlands,” John admitted. He eyed Evan. “Which side of the wall are you from?”

“My family was captured from outside the wall when I was small,” Evan said. “But I grew up inside the wall.”

“What was it you did before?” Rodney asked. “Before you were a slave, I mean.”

There was something to the way Evan closed in on himself, clutched his collar closed, that made bile rise in John’s throat. He remembered the way the leader had grabbed Evan. He’d probably been a doll.

“It doesn’t matter what you did before,” John said, “so long as you pull your weight now.”

“I’m a good cook,” Evan offered.

Rodney’s eyes lit up. “That food before. You cooked it?”

Evan nodded.

“Excellent. John’s an abysmal cook, and I’m not much better. Sure, we can teach you to read. We’ll see if we can’t find some children’s books when we trade next.” Rodney clapped Evan on the shoulder, and Evan flinched away.

Rodney, who was socially oblivious at the best of times, snatched his hand back. “Sorry. Let’s go. Make camp. John can go hunt. We’ll have dinner.”

“I can help hunt,” Evan said.

John offered him a tentative smile. “Great. I’ve got a spare bow.”

Over the days that passed, John’s suspicion that Evan had been a doll before he was sold to the scrappers was confirmed. Evan would sneak away to do his business, as opposed to Rodney, who had zero shame about bodily functions. Evan insisted on being alone during bathing as well, either in running water when they found it, or in the tin bath they shared.

Rodney respected Evan’s intense privacy, and John did the same. Evan was careful never to touch them, managed to slide past them in the cramped camper without actually touching them, and they kept their distance. Evan never removed his clothes around them, always wore long-sleeved, high-collared shirts when he could find them, even on hot days.

But he was a good cook and hunter, and he was a quick learner. He practiced his reading diligently every day, and he progressed from The Cat in the Hat to simple little chapter stories, like Nancy Drew Junior Mysteries. He kept to himself, said little, slept curled up on the couch. He knew John and Rodney were together, had learned to absent himself when they decided to be amorous, never commented when they returned from a “supply run” with their clothes rumpled and leaves in their hair.

John felt him watching them, sometimes. He wondered if Evan was disgusted by what they did, if only because his only experience with similar acts was coerced.

Evan smiled and kept on hunting, cooking, cleaning, reading, and working. More than once, Rodney told him he wasn’t beholden to them, could leave if he wanted, but he always politely declined and said he wanted to stay.

*

They were at another scrapper camp, Rodney looking for supplies. John was interested in picking up more weapons - and then he saw it. A guitar.

He hadn’t laid hands on one of those since -

John closed his eyes, swallowed hard. Saw his childhood home going up in flames. Heard his mother and little brother screaming. Heard his father bellowing in fury and agony.

Evan said, “Do you play?”

John opened his eyes. “Not in a long time.” He reached for the guitar, hesitated, drew his hand back.

Then Rodney hollered for him, and John hurried to his side. He helped earn his keep with Rodney by cleaning and repairing parts.

“Is this salvageable?” Rodney asked, holding up a small motor.

John cradled it in his hands, turned it, peered at it. “Yeah.”

Rodney nodded at the eager young man on the other side of the merchant table. “We’ll take it.” He glanced at John. “Where’s Evan?”

“He’s - browsing,” John said.

At first, both he and Rodney had been nervous about letting Evan out of their sight, afraid his bright blue eyes and dimpled smile and golden skin, now mostly healed of scars and sores and bruises, would draw the wrong kind of attention, but Evan seemed confident about going about on his own during excursions like this, so they let him. He always met at the rendezvous point at the end of the day, so John wasn’t too worried.

He and Rodney had acquired a good haul of supplies - food, clothes, tools, more weapons, parts to make and repair things - in exchange for skins from what Evan and John hunted and some small machines Rodney had put together. They headed for the edge of the scrapper camp where John had parked his motorcycle and sidecar, and Evan was waiting for them, perched on the front of the sidecar with uncanny grace.

He was holding the guitar John had been looking at.

John stared at him. “How did you get that?”

“Bartered for it, fair and square.” Evan smiled. He held it out. “You should play for Rodney sometime.”

Rodney looked at John. “You play a musical instrument?”

“When I was younger. You?”

“I used to play piano,” Rodney said faintly. “But - not in a long time.”

Rodney knew nothing of how John had grown up, had only a faint clue about what his tattoos meant. John knew little of the details of how Rodney had grown up, but if he’d had access to a piano, he’d grown up privileged, which few roving mechanics did.

John looked Evan over, praying he didn’t see any finger- or mouth-shaped bruises on his skin, but as always, Evan was covered up modestly, like some kind of religious zealot.

Evan hopped off the sidecar and helped Rodney load supplies into it. John always drove the motorcycle, Rodney behind him and clinging to him, Evan perched on the sidecar if there was no room in it.

That night, after supper, John picked up the guitar, tested the strings. They’d been tuned. He glanced at Evan, but Evan and Rodney were washing up, side-by-side at the water bucket, close but still carefully not touching.

When Evan rolled up his sleeves to do the washing up, his arms were covered with scars, neat straight lines, obviously from a blade. He’d probably been cut hundreds of times, if those scars continued up past his elbows.

John did his best not to stare, and Evan did his best to pretend he didn’t notice when John and Rodney stared.

Instead John strummed the guitar, fumbling for the chords he’d once learned.

Four chords. Those were all a guy needed to play a song. They were C major, G major, A minor, F major. Getting one finger across two strings for the F major took a moment, but then John had it. He picked a strum pattern, thinking.

Rodney turned, surprised.

Evan turned as well, smiled.

John had never had a great singing voice, the singers in the family being his mother and brother, but he could carry a tune. So he began to sing.

 _The dawn is breaking_  
_The light shines through_  
_You’re barely waking_  
_And I’m tangled up in you_

“Go,” Evan said softly to Rodney. “I’ll finish up.”

“But you cooked,” Rodney protested.

“He’s singing for you.”

John glanced up at them, kept on singing and playing. Finally Rodney stepped away from the wash basin, shook the water off his hands, wiped them dry on his shirt, and came over to sit beside John and their little cooking fire. Evan had showed them how to build a cooking fire in the ground, one that burned hot and long and had little smoke so raiders or bandits or outlaws wouldn’t notice them, and so there wasn’t much light or warmth, but there was enough to see by.

In the flames and the dying sunlight, Rodney was limned in gold, his hair and skin and clothes, his smile. But his eyes were still so blue.

John moved onto the next song he knew that used those four chords, growing more confident, and he kept playing, kept singing.

One time Rodney told him to keep on playing when the song ended, keep the chords going, so John did. Rodney furrowed his brow in intense concentration, counting, and then he began to sing.

A song John had never heard before, one sad and mournful.

 _Maybe in another life_  
_I could find you there_  
_Pulled away before your time_  
_I can’t deal_  
_It’s so unfair_

John barely noticed when Evan left, drifted off into the trees the way he did sometimes.

The way he did on nights when John and Rodney came together.

When Rodney finished his song, he launched into another, and they sang till they couldn’t speak, and then John set the guitar aside and they kissed, and they made love under the stars.

Rodney was still sleeping when Evan returned, moving silently in the shadows.

John was awake, gazing at the guitar, running his hands over it. He’d never imagined owning one of these again.

“Thank you,” he said to Evan.

Evan said, gravely, “You are very welcome.”

John swallowed hard. “I hope you didn’t pay too high a price for it.”

“Your happiness is without price, but like I said, I bartered for it, fair and square.”

John looked at him. “Why does my happiness mean so much to you? Rodney was the one who bought you from those scrappers, not me.”

“His happiness means a lot to me as well,” Evan said, glancing at Rodney’s sleeping form. He started for the door of the camper.

John went after him. “Evan, don’t - don’t sell your body for us. Ever.”

Evan stared at him for a long moment, and then he laughed, soft and slow and incredulous. “You - you think I’m a doll?”

John blinked. “I - you weren’t? Before?”

“I thought what I was before doesn’t matter,” Evan said.

“It doesn’t. I just -”

“I traded some portraits,” Evan said.

John blinked. “Portraits?”

Evan made a scribbling motion with one hand. “I drew them.”

“You can draw? Where do you get the paper?”

“The blank pages in books.” Evan shrugged.

“Oh. Well - that must have taken a lot of time. Thank you.”

Evan smiled. “Like I said, your happiness means a lot to me.” And he climbed into the camper, went to curl up on the couch.

The next time they went a-bartering, John brought a few extra furs to trade for some art supplies for Evan. The expression on Evan’s face - awe, gratitude - made something shift under John’s skin.

Rodney, John noticed, was watching Evan too, studying his face and hands as he flipped through the unused sketchbook, traced his fingers over the neat, unsharpened pencils.

*

When Evan wasn’t cooking, hunting, or cleaning, he was drawing. Drawing, drawing, drawing - still lifes of various items around the camper, endless studies of John and Rodney, landscapes of the places they traveled to. Portraits of two women and a girl, all of whom had similar features to Evan in one way or another - his family?

John played music in the evenings, and sometimes Evan would join in with his and Rodney’s singing. They were always startled but pleased when they discovered they knew a song together. Of the three of them, Rodney was the most skilled singer, could pick up a harmony.

John had thought his life with Rodney was near-perfect. Even though sometimes they went hungry or had to run from bandits, their life was peaceful. Insular. The world was theirs. But with Evan in the mix, they had more color, more art, more music. One time Rodney sat down with Evan and described someone to him - the little sister he’d lost, the one for whom he sang the mournful Gone Away song, and Evan sketched her face, her curly pale hair and big eyes, her jawline a softer more feminine version of Rodney’s. So John described his mother and brother, and Evan drew them too.

Evan’s portraits were some of the best bargaining chips they had. By trading them, Rodney could collect the tools he wanted, and John could stock up on more weapons and hunting gear, and Evan could buy more art supplies.

One night, after a pleasant meal and a cautious amount of wine, Rodney turned to John, pressed kisses to his throat, slid a hand up his shirt.

Evan excused himself, ducked out of the camper.

John and Rodney retreated to their bed.

Rodney always slept hard after he climaxed, but John didn’t, instead lay beside him, looking at him.

But eventually he, too, fell asleep.

He woke when he heard movement outside of the camper. He slid out of the bed, pulled on trousers silently, grabbed his sword and knife, and headed for the door.

He leaned up, peered out the window, and saw - bandits. Two of them restraining Evan, who was pale-faced even in the shadows. Five more surrounded him.

John had faced worse odds.

Glass exploded behind him.

Bandits poured in through the window.

Rodney woke with a sharp cry.

John sprang into action. He didn’t think, just acted. Thrust, parry, block, sidestep, slash, stab, punch, kick, throw. No time to think. He had to get to Rodney, had to -

The door banged open. John spun to face the intruders, and then Rodney cried out again.

Two bandits, hauling him between them, appeared from the back bed. One had a blade pressed to Rodney’s throat.

John had no choice. He surrendered, dropped his weapons.

Two more bandits grabbed him, and he and Rodney were dragged into the cold night.

“Evan!” John shouted.

One of the bandits cuffed him upside the head.

“John!” Evan sounded terrified.

“What the hell do you want?” Rodney demanded. “We don’t have any money, we barely have enough food for ourselves, and none of you are smart enough to make use of my tools or know a reasonable price to sell them at.”

“Shut up,” one of the bandits snarled and backhanded him viciously.

Evan whimpered. “Don’t, please don’t, I’ll do anything, don’t -”

John craned his neck, trying to see what the bandits were trying to do to Evan. One of them was menacing him with a knife, tracing the tip of the blade along his jaw.

The scars on Evan’s arms were from cuts. He was probably terrified.

“I’m the most useful,” John said. “I can hunt and fight. Let them go, and I’ll stay with you.”

“You’re the least useful,” the leader of the bandits said, swaggering across the clearing to sneer at John. “The loud one’s a genius. He can work for us. And the other one - he can trade for us. We’ve seen his handiwork.”

Dammit. When Evan’s artwork had started to gain a reputation, John had been proud of him, excited, pleased.

He should have known that no good deed went unpunished.

Then the leader looked John up and down. He reached out, ran a hand down John’s chest, expression avaricious, admiring.

“But we might have some use for you before we kill you.”

John shuddered. “Get your hand off me.”

“He’s got clipper tattoos,” one of the other bandits said.

“Oho? Let me see.”

The leader made a twirling motion, and the bandits holding John spun him around.

“Look at that. At least five dozen kills. Your baron probably misses your excellent service.” The leader chuckled. “Bet we’d collect a hefty reward if we returned you. More if we bring you back broken and compliant.”

John snarled and writhed when he felt a hand slide down his back.

The bandits turned him back around so he could see Rodney and Evan, Rodney who was naked and defiant and furious, Evan who was still trembling.

“We should break all of them,” the leader said, leering at Rodney. “That one seems fiery. Save the best for last.” He turned to Evan. “But this one - this one will scream real pretty, I can feel it. He can get us all warmed up. Right, boys?”

The other bandits laughed.

Fury burned in John’s veins. “No. Let him go. Take -” He swallowed down the bile in his throat. “Take me instead.”

The leader laughed. “You’ll get your turn, clipper. But we’ll start with this one.” He turned to Evan, drew his knife, traced it along Evan’s cheekbone.

Blood dripped down Evan’s face.

And Evan - his eyes turned black.

For one moment, in the silvery moonlight filtering through the trees overhead, John could see that Evan’s eyes were pitch black, no pupil, no iris, just black.

He ceased trembling.

His face was perfectly devoid of expression.

And then he _moved._

Evan flowed like water, limbs sweeping and sliding from one motion to the next. John was mesmerized, because it was like Evan was dancing, spinning, turning, stepping, gliding across the grass, almost silent. He said nothing, and his expression remained blank, his eyes pitch black, as he slaughtered the bandits one by one. Some he broke. Some he disarmed and gutted with their own weapons. One he threw so hard John heard the man’s spine snap when he hit a tree.

The bandits holding him and Rodney released them, dashed into the fray.

They were cut down like weeds beneath the blade of a scythe.

It happened in mere moments, but to John it felt like hours. Time slowed down and he watched, transfixed, as Evan committed wholesale slaughter with all the dispassion of a cog picking poppies in a field.

When it finished, Evan was breathing calmly, his face and clothes spattered with blood.

All of the bandits were dead.

The black faded from Evan’s eyes, and he sank to his knees, panting.

Rodney stared at him, pale with terror.

John ran to him, dropped to his knees beside him. “Evan, are you all right? What happened!”

“I - I’m sorry,” Evan gasped. He went to press a hand to the wound on his cheekbone, saw the blood on his hands, shook his head in revulsion. “I killed them all. I didn’t want to. I -”

And then Rodney was beside him as well. “No. Don’t apologize. Those monsters had it coming. What they were going to do to us - they didn’t deserve quick deaths.” He rose, offered Evan his hand. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Evan nodded dazedly, let Rodney and John help him to his feet.

“Let’s get out of here first,” John said. He hurried into the camper, found a towel, gave it to Evan, who began scrubbing the blood off of himself with frenzied hands.

Rodney grabbed all of their camping supplies and threw them into the camper. Then he dragged on some clothes and fired up the engine. They’d patch up the broken window later, clean up the destruction. They just had to get as far from the scene of carnage as possible.

As soon as the little clearing had vanished from the rearview mirror, Rodney pulled over, off the road, and headed for a small lake they’d camped beside before.

Evan was sitting on the floor, scrubbing ineffectually at his bloodstained clothes, eyes wide, panting and trembling.

John took the towel from him. “C’mon, let’s get some warm water.”

Rodney cut the engine, and he hopped out of the camper. He dug a couple of holes, started a fire, ran down to the water with a kettle, filled it, set it to heating. John guided Evan out of the camper and onto the cool, damp grass.

“Get me a bowl, and some clean clothes,” John said.

Rodney nodded and dashed back into the bus. He returned with some more of Evan’s clothes and the big bowl Evan usually used for stew. Rodney filled the bowl with warm water, then went to refill the kettle.

John tugged gently on the hem of Evan’s shirt. “C’mon. These clothes are done for. We’ll get you more later. You need to clean up.”

Evan nodded, still shaking, and raised his arms above his head so John could peel the sticky shirt off of him. He must have been in a bad way, that he was letting John touch him, undress him.

As soon as Evan was clear of the shirt, John realized just why Evan had always refuse to be undressed around him and Rodney.

The scars that covered Evan’s forearms extended all the way up his arms, past his elbows - and continued. They covered his entire chest, all neat, precise, too-white lines. John forced himself to focus on Evan’s face. His eyes were totally normal now, wide, his gaze hollow.

John set the shirt aside, tapped on Evan’s waist. “Your pants too.”

Rodney returned with the full kettle - and stopped short. He kettle tumbled out of his hands.

Evan yelped and twisted away when cold water hit him.

“Sorry!” Rodney cried, scooping up the kettle. “I didn’t mean to -”

John saw what had made Rodney drop the kettle.

Evan’s back was awash with black ink. He had at least a thousand black tallies tattooed into his skin. Clipper marks, all of them. Evan had been a clipper. One tally for each kill.

John knew that most clippers didn’t survive to have as many marks as he had - and he’d stopped getting new tattoos after he’d escaped the Badlands.

“I’ll go refill the kettle. I’m so sorry, Evan.” Rodney hurried back to the water.

Evan nodded, scooped up his shirt, used the water splashed on his skin to try to scrub away more of the blood.

John took the shirt from him. “You’re just smearing it everywhere. Let me get you another towel, all right? And it’ll work better with warm water. Wait for Rodney to heat the water, all right?’

Evan didn’t respond.

John leaned in, caught his gaze. “All right?”

After too long a pause, lucidity crept into Evan’s eyes, and he met John’s gaze, nodded. “All right.”

“Stay here.” John rose, headed back to the camper. He had to get away, couldn’t let Evan see the horror on his face. Because he was horrified. Evan was one of those _gifted,_ human killing machines whose eyes turned black when someone drew blood on them. Someone must have discovered his gift early on, turned him into a clipper.

Sent him into battle a thousand times, judging by the number of scars and tattoos on him. Each of those scars represented a deliberate bloodletting, when Evan was transformed against his will from a sweet, thoughtful artist and talented cook into an instrument of slaughter.

And it wasn’t his fault. That wasn’t who he was. He wasn’t a killer.

Everything made sense now - his refusal to ever be unclothed around John and Rodney, lest they see his clipper tattoos and scars. The way he shied away from violent altercations whenever John had to settle a dispute (usually one of Rodney’s) with his fists or his blades, lest someone draw blood on him and he turn into a monster.

John found a clean towel, forced himself to take deep breaths. Then he returned to Evan and Rodney.

Together, he and Rodney washed all the blood off of Evan’s body, off his hands and face, out of his hair. By some unspoken agreement they narrated their work in soft, hushed voices, letting Evan know where they were going to touch him before they touched him. When Evan was clean - it took Rodney multiple trips to empty out the bowl and refresh it with warm, clean water - Rodney and John dressed him in clean clothes.

“Think you can sleep?” John asked.

Evan started to nod, then shook his head. He drew his knees up to his chest and pressed his face against them, rocking and trembling.

Rodney hummed thoughtfully for a moment. Then he scurried up into the camper, returned with John’s guitar which had, thankfully, survived the bandits’ destruction.

“Here,” he said. “Maybe a lullaby.”

John accepted it, checked the tuning. He hadn’t played or heard a lullaby in a long time. “How about...this one?”

It was simple, started with low strumming. It was one he hadn’t sung in a long time. One that he figured Evan might appreciate.

 _And I’d give up forever to touch you_  
_‘Cause I know that you feel me somehow_  
_You’re the closest to heaven that I’ll ever be_  
_And I don’t want to go home right now_

 _And all I can taste is this moment_  
_And all I can breathe is your life_  
_‘Cause sooner or later it’s over_  
_I just don’t want to miss you tonight_

Incredibly, Rodney knew the song, and he joined in on the chorus.

 _And I don’t want the world to see me_  
_‘Cause I don’t think that they’d understand_  
_When everything’s made to be broken_  
_I just want you to know who I am_

Evan was still rocking back and forth, his breath too fast and too shallow.

Rodney smoothed a hand up and down his back, kept on singing, so John also kept on singing and playing.

By the time the song ended, Evan had stilled, his breathing eased.

When John segued into the next song, Evan lifted his head, peered at John and Rodney with a tear-stained face.

“Can we sleep out here?” he asked.

“I was about to suggest the same thing,” Rodney said. “There’s glass all over the place inside. Let me go get some blankets.”

John set his guitar aside, reached out to Evan, paused right before touching him. “Hey. You saved us. I’m sorry it had to be that way, that I wasn’t a better fighter, that I wasn’t protecting us. That’s _my_ job, not yours. But thank you for saving me - and Rodney.”

“I just want you to be happy,” Evan said in a small voice. Then he sat up straighter, took a deep breath. “We should all sleep. Then in the morning, I - I’ll go.”

John put a hand on his shoulder. “No. Stay.”

“But -”

“Evan, I was a clipper once too.”

Evan shook his head. “Not like me -”

“I told you once before that your past doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. Rodney and I, we like you. We want you to stay with us.”

“Rodney doesn’t understand,” Evan said. “What I am, what I can do -”

“Rodney loves me,” John said, voice low and urgent. “If he can love me, there’s no reason he shouldn’t be able to at least like you.”

Evan bit his lip. “Why aren’t you afraid of me? What if I hurt you? Or Rodney?”

“You won’t hurt us,” John said. “You haven’t before now, because you’ve been careful not to get cut. You stay covered up to decrease your risk of getting cut. Now that we know, we can be careful too.”

Evan peered at him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’d hurt us if you left.” Rodney stood over them with some blankets. “You’re our friend, Evan.”

Friend. John hadn’t heard that word in a long, long time. As a baron’s son, he’d had no friends, only allies and rivals and sycophants. As a clipper, men had called themselves his friends, but they’d have killed him in a heartbeat on their baron’s orders.

Rodney was his friend, but John didn’t usually think of him that way, because Rodney was first and foremost his lover.

Evan was his friend. John liked him, could talk to him, could sit with him in silence while they both pursued their own hobbies.

Evan peered up at Rodney, studied his face, nodded.

“Come on. Let’s sleep.” Rodney knelt distributed blankets.

Evan accepted a blanket, went to move away, but Rodney caught his arm, held him fast.

“Stay. You can sleep in the middle.”

Evan cast John a wild look. “In the middle?”

“Warmest spot,” John said.

Before Evan could protest further, Rodney lay down, drew his blanket up over him, and slung his arm across Evan’s waist. John did the same. Evan sat there on his haunches for a minute, silent, unmoving, but eventually he lay down between them, snuggled under his blanket, and arranged their arms around his waist so they were comfortable, and together they fell asleep.

*

Evan was still between them the next morning when John woke. He fixed them breakfast while they washed up, and then they washed the breakfast dishes, and together the three of them cleaned up the camper, threw out anything damaged beyond repair, sorted out what was salvageable. They nailed boards across the broken windows, which would cut down on the light they could have during the day, but Rodney talked about making shutters instead of windows so they could have light during the day but security at night.

They talked about getting new clothes for Evan, grateful that his art supplies had survived the attack.

Once everything was sorted, they moved on.

They drifted from place to place, picking up supplies, bartering and trading for clothes and more art supplies, tools and more scrap pieces for Rodney. His ultimate goal was to build a device that would allow them to always have fuel for the camper. He’d read an old book about drawing fuel from the sun, and he wanted to make it so their camper - and John’s bike - would always have fuel, so no matter what they’d always have freedom.

Evan helped him, listening to him brainstorm about designs, sketching them out for them.

“If you haven’t tried to draw it out, you haven’t really tried to solve the problem,” Rodney said one day, with the air of a man quoting great wisdom.

Evan smiled at that.

John was glad to see him smiling again - smiling brighter, more often. By some unspoken rule he still slept between them at night. John knew he wasn’t the only one who worried about waking in the morning and discovering that Evan had gone.

He was freer with them now, too, would indulge in the same easy physical affection they’d always shared, pats and backslaps and one-armed hugs. Sometimes he and John would tussle playfully, try to give each other noogies. He didn’t sneak away when it was time to wash up, either. Instead he stuck around and helped fill the tin bath with water warmed in the kettle over a fire pit, and when it was his turn to bathe, he stripped off his clothes, unselfconscious, and climbed into the water.

Evan was beautiful. John had always noticed when people around him were handsome or pretty, and Evan’s bright blue eyes and sweet, dimpled smile had made heads turn more than once, but whenever they were at a market, Evan rebuffed advances from men and women alike, gentle but firm.

Evan had broad shoulders, strong arms and a muscular chest, firm thighs and graceful hands. Sometimes John admired the curve of his neck when he was bent over his sketchbook, making images come to life on a blank page. More than once he’d caught himself admiring Evan’s mouth when he smiled.

Also, Evan was funny in a deadpan, dry kind of way. John hadn’t realized just how unnaturally quiet Evan had been before till he started to joke around with Rodney. Of course, half of joking around with Rodney was winding him up and up and up till he was almost incoherent with disbelief at how _stupid_ Evan was - and then he’d realize, _oh, you’re messing with me again,_ and Evan would laugh and Rodney would roll his eyes or pout at John and John would squeeze his shoulder gently.

“Never forget that Evan’s much smarter than he lets on,” John said.

“Some days,” Rodney said, mock-glaring at Evan, “I think he doesn’t even know just how smart he really is.”

Truth was, John really liked Evan.

He knew Rodney liked him, too, put up with Evan’s deadpan teasing with mostly good humor. He encouraged Evan to experiment on them with his cooking. One time he traded a finely-tuned clock that had taken him ages to repair for a rack of spices.

More than once, John had caught Rodney’s gaze lingering on Evan’s forearms while he was stirring sauce, or on his chest when he was basking, shirtless, in the sun.

Evan would still casually absent himself when John and Rodney wanted some time alone, though more often than not they left Evan at the camper and went off into the trees together.

Finally, John managed to get Rodney alone so they could talk about Evan.

“I’ve seen you watching him.”

Rodney crossed his arms over his chest. “You watch him too.”

“I’m not denying that.” John studied Rodney carefully. “Does that make you angry? Because -”

“Because what? I’m not going to turn him out. He’s -” Rodney frowned, fumbling for words. “He’s -”

“One of us, isn’t he?”

Rodney nodded vigorously, then stopped short. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“What is it you think I’m saying?”

“I think you’re saying that you want Evan and you know I want him too and you’re not angry at me for wanting him and I’m not angry at you for wanting him and we both agree he should stay.”

John had to replay that in his head a couple of times to make sure he followed, because Rodney talked fast on a good day and talked even faster when he got excited. “Yes.”

“So...what’s the plan?”

“We should...keep an eye on him,” John said. “See if he watches us back. Wants us back.”

Rodney said, “I think it’s pretty obvious he wants us back. He got that guitar for you, cooks extra-special things for me.”

John remembered how Evan had said, _Your happiness is without price._

He also remembered how Evan had laughed off the notion of having once been a doll.

But he remembered how that scrapper who’d managed to enslave him had manhandled him, treated him, acted like he’d used Evan as a doll.

“Want to go ask him, then?” John asked.

“If - what? If he wants to sleep between us? He does that already.”

John threw his hands up. “Then what’s your plan?”

Rodney’s mouth twisted into an uncertain frown. “Let’s...watch him and see.”

So they did.

Evan was as friendly as ever, as sweet as ever, but his touches and glances never lingered on them, not like they sometimes lingered on each other. If he was watching them, he was incredibly subtle about it.

John started to press the issue - by bringing Evan gifts when he and Rodney went bartering. Chocolate. An abalone-inlaid wooden box to keep his art pencils in. Fine paint brushes and watercolors. A blue shirt that made his eyes even bluer. A sturdy leather satchel to keep his pencil box and sketchbook in.

Rodney pressed the issue in his own way, bringing Evan more spices, exotic recipes, and cooking implements. He managed to pass off each gift as enlightened self-interest, but he always looked pleased when Evan’s face lit up when he saw the gifts Rodney had brought him.

Just when John thought they were almost there, that it was the right time to talk to Evan, everything went to hell.

Because of bandits.

Again.

They were attacked on their way home from bartering, the three of them on John’s motorcycle.

One moment they were rumbling along, the next the bike went skidding sideways.

John and Evan landed on their feet, because they had clipper reflexes, but Rodney landed hard, and John heard him cry out in pain.

Then half a dozen bandits charged at them.

John didn’t think, he just drew his sword and charged into battle.

He had to protect Rodney, and he had to protect Evan.

Only Evan - blue-eyed, angry determination on his face - was dispatching bandits with at least as much skill as John. He wasn’t the inhumanly strong and fast black-eyed creature from their previous encounter with bandits, but he was obviously a trained clipper.

They finished the bandits quickly, then ran to check on Rodney. Apart from some nasty road rash, Rodney was unhurt, no broken bones, just scraped and bruised.

Evan collected the best of the bandits’ weapons, tossed the rest into the trees, and then they rushed back to the camper to get Rodney’s wounds cleaned and bandaged. Once Rodney was settled down, John and Evan washed off the blood, cleaned off John’s weapons.

Evan said nothing the entire time.

He didn’t sleep between them that night.

John was unaccountably glad the next morning when he woke to the scent of Evan making breakfast.

But his gladness was short-lived, because Evan was back to his quiet, withdrawn self, eschewing conversation and touch, retreating to the couch and drawing in silence once his chores were done.

John felt a little hollow even though every night he slept beside Rodney, the two of them hand-in-hand, starkly aware of the empty space between them. He knew Rodney felt the same way, and they didn’t know what to do about it. They continued to bring Evan gifts, but they also gave him his space, and they still didn’t know what to do.

Rodney and John had had screaming disagreements before, gone for days without talking, but they’d always made up - and usually made up with sex.

How could they fix things with Evan, Evan who was still in so many ways a stranger?

They sat beside their little cooking fire one summer night, the three of them in the fading sunlight, Rodney reading a new book he’d picked up on solar energy, Evan sketching, and John strumming idly on his guitar.

Evan said, “Sing for us?”

He never asked for anything for himself.

John smiled at him. “Sure. Anything in particular?”

Evan sang, softly, _“You and I collide.”_

The song John had first played on the guitar Evan had bartered for him.

John nodded and began to sing.

Rodney closed his book and set it aside, gaze going distant as he listened.

He joined in on the second verse, sang louder on the chorus.

 _Even the best fall down sometimes_ __  
_Even the wrong words seem to rhyme_ __  
_Out of the doubt that fills my mind_ __  
_I somehow find_  
_You and I collide_

Evan listened, hands still, expression contemplative.

But then his gaze turned lucid, and he joined in on the third verse.

 _I’m quiet you know_ __  
_You make a first impression_ __  
_I’m scared to know I’m_  
_Always on your mind_

He met John’s gaze on that last line, then Rodney’s.

John let his voice twine with theirs, and they sang through the second chorus, the bridge, the final chorus, hit that last note.

When the last guitar strains faded from the air, John set aside his guitar, rose to his feet, skirted around the cooking fire, offered one hand to Evan, the other to Rodney.

“Where I follow, you go,” he said in a low voice.

Evan looked at John, then Rodney.

Rodney nodded.

Evan reached out, tangled his fingers with John’s, let John help him to his feet. Rodney did the same, and the three of them walked back to the camper.

John led them both to the bed. It was Rodney who caught Evan by the shoulders, steered him so he was sitting on the edge of the mattress. Then he knelt, started to unlace one of Evan’s boots. John knelt, set to work on the other.

“Wait,” Evan protested. “I can -”

John turned his head, pressed a kiss to the inside of Evan’s knee. “Let us do this for you.”

Evan’s hand settled on his shoulder, uncertain. But then he said, “All right.”

Rodney tugged his boot off, set it aside, peeled off his sock, cradled Evan’s foot in his palms. “If we do anything you don’t like or don’t want, tell us. Tonight, we’re yours.” He brushed his lips over the delicate skin at Evan’s ankle, causing him to shiver.

“Just tonight?” Evan asked.

“And tomorrow, if you want us,” John said.

“Rodney?”

“What he said.”

Evan took a deep breath. Finally, he said, “I want you both. Every day and every night and every tomorrow until I have none left.”

John rose up, sat on the bed beside him. Rodney sat on the other side of him.

“Then you can have us,” Rodney said.

Evan leaned in and kissed him.

They were beautiful together, dark and light, golden skin, tentative hands.

Rodney moaned into the kiss, the kind of moan John knew meant he was incredibly turned on. He was probably already hard. John wanted to reach out and touch, feel, spur on his ardor, but then Evan pulled back.

Rodney was left panting, and John was the breathless one when Evan guided him into a slow, soft kiss. Evan’s mouth was warm, sweet, his hand on John’s jaw gentle and tentative. John parted his lips, let Evan in to taste. Evan curled his tongue against John’s, and the heat that had built in his veins from watching him and Rodney kiss sparked hotter.

They parted for air, and it was Rodney who said, “Let us take care of you.”

Together, they undressed Evan, fingers tangling on buttons and laces, taking turns to press kisses to Evan’s warm skin as each inch was revealed. They didn’t flinch away from his scars or tattoos, whispered promises of pleasure and gentleness against his skin as they parted fabric and cast it aside. Then they took turns kissing his mouth, petting his hair and tracing the lines of his throat, his collarbones and shoulders, the muscles of his chest.

Rodney had always been the bold one, the adventurous one, and he stroked a fingertip over one of Evan’s nipples first. Evan mewled into John’s mouth, and Rodney hummed, pleased. Then Evan cried out, and John pulled back from their kiss, twisted to look. Rodney had his head bowed over Evan’s body, was lapping at one of his nipples, toying with the other.

Beneath him, Evan writhed, arching into the touch, rocking his hips, cock hard, desperate for friction.

John leaned in, kissed Evan on the mouth, and he reached down, tangled his fingers with Rodney’s, timed the strokes of his tongue with the strokes of their fingers, and Evan was begging, pleading for more, more. Then Rodney leaned up, nuzzled John aside, and John kissed the corner of Evan’s mouth before surrendering the kiss to Rodney. John nipped and licked along the line of Evan’s jaw, teased the soft spot beneath his ear, tasted the line of his throat. He couldn’t resist licking and biting at Evan’s collarbones, lapping at the hollow of his throat, and then he kissed his way down Evan’s chest.

Rodney was playing with one wet-slick nipple, so John dipped his head, licked at the other.

Evan moaned, the sound muffled by Rodney’s kiss, rocking beneath them, but they didn’t give him the friction he wanted.

Evan’s gasps and sighs were louder when Rodney pulled back from the kiss, trailed kisses and nibbles down his body, and then both he and John were licking his nipples, and he was incoherent with pleasure.

John glanced at Rodney, caught his eye, and unspoken agreement passed between them.

“Do you trust us?” Rodney asked.

Evan said, “With my life.”

It was Rodney who slid off the bed, went to fetch the silk ropes. John skimmed out of his own clothes, cast them aside, and then he leaned down, continued to taste the skin of Evan’s chest, down along his ribs and belly, lapped at his navel, which made him laugh breathlessly.

Rodney returned with the ropes, showed them to Evan. “If this isn’t all right -”

“I trust you,” Evan said.

He stretched his arms above his head, spread his legs, and John groaned.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, and he pressed kisses to the hollow of Evan’s hip.

Rodney bound one wrist, then the other. He pressed kisses to Evan’s palms, traced his fingertips all the way from Evan’s wrists to his shoulders, every scar and mark, gaze solemn, pupils wide with lust. He bound one of Evan’s ankles, dropped light kisses along the arch of his foot, his ankle, up his calf and shin, nuzzled behind his knee.

Evan gasped and whimpered, shifting restlessly. Rodney bound his other ankle, ran his hands up Evan’s leg, behind his knee and up the inside of his thigh, but he drew back before he touched Evan where he really wanted to be touched.

John, still lazily nicking and nibbling at Evan’s hip and along his belly, watched Rodney out of the corner of his eye. He was so turned on - by Evan’s pleasure, by Rodney’s deliberate touches and kisses, his hands on the ropes. And now Rodney was taking his clothes off, taking just as much care with each button and fastening as he did with his most delicate machines.

He set each piece of clothing aside, and then he and John were kneeling opposite each other, gloriously nude.

Rodney reached out, drew John into a kiss. They kissed and touched, pressed to each other from shoulder to hip to thigh. John could feel Rodney’s hardness against his belly, resisted the urge to rub his own hardness against Rodney’s soft belly.

Tonight, they were giving themselves to Evan.

They didn’t need words, continued kissing and caressing. Rodney traced the lines of John’s shoulder blades, down his spine, rested his hand in the small of John’s back, holding him close.

“Both of you,” Evan whispered, “are incredible.”

John turned to look at him, tilted his head to give Rodney better access when he nipped at John’s throat, smiled. Then he felt Rodney slide his hand lower, his hand now slick with oil, and his eyes fluttered closed when Rodney slid that first finger into him.

Evan groaned, and John enjoyed the dual sensations of Rodney’s mouth on his skin and Rodney’s finger inside of him.

“Do me,” Rodney whispered, and John nodded, fumbled for the jar of oil.

They knelt on the bed, rocking together, gasping and moaning, opening each other up for Evan to see.

John could barely think straight by the time Rodney had three fingers in him, fucking him slowly, deliberately not touching his sweet spot, but he opened his eyes, looked at Evan, who was rock-hard, cock dark and leaking.

“Who do you want first?”

Evan’s eyes were glazed over with lust, and he bit his lip, shook his head.

John turned to Rodney. “Think you can wait?”

Rodney leaned in, nipped at John’s bottom lip. “Can _you?”_

Both of them had pretty impressive self-control when the need arose, but they’d been waiting a long time to be with Evan, and they’d been teasing each other - and him - mercilessly.

John bit his lip, and Rodney tossed his head.

“Evan,” he said, “tonight is our first time, but not our last. We can try lots of things - everything - in the nights to come. For now, let us give you this.”

Evan nodded frantically.

Rodney slid his fingers out of John, then said, “I want you to put your mouth on him.”

John’s heart skipped a beat, and he nodded. He crawled up the bed, settled himself between Evan’s thighs. Evan’s eyes went wide, and John grinned at him before he lowered his head and licked a stripe up the underside of Evan’s cock, root to tip.

Evan whined in the back of his throat, and John got busy, curling one hand around his shaft and stroking, circling the head with his lips and sucking, licking.

“How is that?” Rodney asked. “Does it feel good.”

“Fuck, _yes,”_ Evan groaned.

“I’ll bet it does. John has such a smart mouth, a clever mouth.” Rodney chuckled, low and filthy, patted John’s hip with a proprietary hand. “It’s so hot to watch him, his red lips, his quick tongue, your hot, hard length sliding in and out of his mouth. Knowing his lips are all swollen from your dick. Seeing his cheeks hollow out as he sucks. You’ll love it every time.”

John groaned around Evan’s cock, and Evan’s hips hitched. Listening to Rodney talk dirty was so hot. For all that Rodney tended to voice his thoughts unceasingly, during sex he was usually quiet, focused. But when he was so turned on he couldn’t think, could only speak -

“You’ll love his ass even more,” Rodney continued, and he tugged on John’s hips lightly.

It took John a moment to realize what Rodney wanted, but then he shuffled a bit, canted his hips up. He took some of his weight on one forearm, his other hand still working Evan’s cock while he sucked it.

“It’s lean and firm,” Rodney said, cupping his hand over the curve of John’s ass. “And it’s so hot. Tight. Perfect.”

John arched into his touch, anticipation tingling down his spine.

“He loves being fucked. Just watch - he’ll totally lose control. You’ll have to take over, fuck his mouth. And you can watch, see what’s in store for you.”

John groaned again, because Rodney was right - he loved being taken, being filled up and pushed around.

Rodney draped himself over John’s back, pressed kisses to his jaw and behind his ear and down his spine.

“You ready?”

John pulled back from Evan just long enough to say, “Yes.”

“Enjoy, Evan,” Rodney said.

John lowered his mouth to Evan’s cock once more.

Rodney opened John up with his fingers, and then he thrust forward, just a bit, just enough for John’s body to remember the girth of him, and he paused, waited.

Evan said, voice rough with passion, “You are both so damn hot.”

Rodney eased forward slow, slow, slow, till he was all the way in, his hips flush against John.

John panted around Evan’s cock, eyes closed, overwhelmed by the scent of Evan’s skin and arousal and Rodney’s hands hot on his hips, his grip branding.

And then Rodney began to thrust.

John cried out as Rodney’s cock stroked his sweet spot. One of Rodney’s hands tangled in his hair, slid down, grasped his jaw, and he paused before the next thrust, guiding Evan’s cock back into John’s mouth.

John opened his eyes, saw Rodney’s hand on Evan’s hip, guiding, and then both of Rodney’s hands were back on John’s hips and he thrust again, and again, and again. The pleasure in John’s body was spiking, and he lost himself in the sensation, of being perfectly and thoroughly fucked.

He could barely keep himself up on his hands and knees, every thrust sending lightning dancing across his nerves.

“Look at him,” Rodney said. “So pliant, so obedient as we fuck him. And he likes it. You can’t see how hard his dick is, but he likes it.”

Rodney reached around, fumbled between John’s legs, grasped his cock, and began to stroke.

He managed two, three pulls, twisting his wrist at the end to flick at the head of John’s cock, and then he began to circle his hips on his thrusts, rubbing John’s sweet spot on every pass, and that was it.

John’s body was subsumed in pleasure, and he came hard, spurting all over Rodney’s hand and his belly and the bed.

Rodney tugged him off of Evan’s cock so he didn’t choke, yanked John onto his lap and continued thrusting, stroking his cock through the aftershocks.

John sank against him, limp.

Rodney caught his jaw, turned his head, leaned in for a kiss, to taste Evan on his tongue, his hand on John’s cock gentling, his touch affectionate instead of arousing.

“How was that?” Rodney whispered.

John could only smile dazedly. He slid to the mattress, boneless, and tucked himself against Evan’s side.

Evan looked about as dazed as John felt, his cock still hard, now wet from John’s mouth.

Rodney’s cock was also hard and wet. He reached out, dipped his fingers into the jar of oil on the nightstand, and then he slicked Evan’s cock.

“Your patience is impressive,” Rodney said, as he shifted up the bed, straddled Evan’s hips. “Now it’s your turn to come.”

John could only watch, both sated and still aroused, as Rodney opened himself again, then slowly worked himself down on Evan’s cock. Evan was panting and cursing, struggling against the restraints, begging and pleading. Rodney loved being fucked just as much as John did, and he had his eyes closed, head tipped back, expression blissful. Then he rose up, the muscles in his thighs shifting, and thrust himself back down.

Evan cried out.

John watched Rodney out of the corner of his eye as he rode Evan’s cock, thighs flexing, Evan thrusting up to meet him. Then John turned his head and lapped at Evan’s nipple.

Evan went wild, writhing against the restraints, thrusting into Rodney. Words spilled from Rodney’s lips, about how hot and hard Evan’s cock was, how he was filling Rodney up so good, how he was hitting all the right places, how much John would enjoy riding Evan’s cock when it was his turn.

John kept flicking his tongue over Evan’s nipple, and then, because he had just enough energy to be a mischief-maker, he reached up, loosed Evan’s right wrist.

Evan reached down, threaded his fingers through John’s hair, arched into his mouth.

John smiled against Evan’s skin, and Evan petted his hair frantically for a moment, and then he reached down further.

John slid aside obligingly, rested his head on the pillow beside Evan’s shoulder and watched Evan curl his hand around Rodney’s cock and stroke.

Rodney’s eyes flew open, and he started to tremble, the rhythm of his hips stuttering.

Evan’s eyes were wide, awed, and he kept touching, stroking, smoothing his thumb over the head of Rodney’s cock, and Rodney found a new rhythm, thrusting up into Evan’s hand and then down onto his cock.

The climax came without warning, Rodney’s lips parting with a wordless cry, Evan arching up off the bed, and then Rodney was coming hot and hard over his belly and thighs, and Evan was coming inside Rodney, thrusting wildly.

Rodney collapsed onto him, and John hurriedly untied the rest of the restraints, and then all three of them were tangled on the bed in a sated, sticky mess. They lay there, breathing together, their heartbeats slowing down.

It was Evan who finally stirred, hurried into the kitchen, returned with a warm washcloth. He cleaned them both gently, with tender hands, then cleaned himself, and then all three of them snuggled under the blankets like they had a thousand times before, Evan between them. Rodney and John pressed against his sides.

John felt Evan tracing the lines of his clipper tattoos idly. In all the nights he’d shared their bed before, seen John’s tattoos, he’d never commented  on them, not once. He’d never passed judgment, and he’d never asked what it was like.

Rodney hadn’t either.

John and Rodney would never ask Evan about his tattoos and scars, would let him tell them on their own time - or perhaps he would never tell them at all, and that would be fine.

“Both of you,” Evan said quietly, “are amazing.

John said, “Where I follow, you go.”

Rodney said, “We’ve had our eyes on you for a while. We like you, and we love you, and we choose you. Okay? We choose _you.”_ He leaned up, pressed a kiss to Evan’s cheek.

John snuggled closer to Evan, slung an arm across his waist, found Rodney’s hand and tangled their fingers together.

They dozed together for a long, long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Song credits:
> 
> Collide - Howie Day  
> Gone Away - The Offspring  
> Iris - Goo Goo Dolls


End file.
